


Goddamn Hippie Bullshit

by ohgodmyeyes



Series: Wrecked Middle-Aged Anakin [7]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: 420, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Drugs, F/M, Frivolous Emergency Room Trip, Implied Sexual Content, Marijuana, Medication, Middle-Aged Anakin Skywalker, No Smut, Oops, Panic Attacks, Reader-Insert, Relationship(s), Smoking, Swearing, Weed, Weird, hurt/comfort?, pot, stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28486863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohgodmyeyes/pseuds/ohgodmyeyes
Summary: You, a free-spirited eighteen-year-old with the best of intentions, convince your fifty-three-year-old secret fuck-buddy to try some of your weed one night.It doesn't exactly go over well, but every cloud of acrid smoke has a silver lining, doesn't it?
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker/Reader
Series: Wrecked Middle-Aged Anakin [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1903132
Comments: 1
Kudos: 30





	Goddamn Hippie Bullshit

**Author's Note:**

> This one is a bit (okay, a lot) different from the others, but I still like it.
> 
> eta: the typo in the damn title has been fixed, fuck you Apple Notes

"What the fuck is _that?"_

"I thought it would be fun! You wanna take a hit?"

Anakin scrunched up his nose and shook his head as he sat down beside you on his grody-looking sofa. He'd just returned to the garage (he slept there because his wife refused to keep him in the house) after stepping out for a few minutes. In that time, you'd set up a nice little surprise for the two of you to share. It was one you had hoped he might appreciate, and you felt more than a little disappointed that he appeared to be less-than-enthused by your effort.

"It looks like some goddamn hippie bullshit," he said, leaning forward to examine the bong you'd placed in the middle of the plywood coffee table in front of the couch. It was about a foot tall, and made of glass. It was pretty; the reason you'd picked it in the first place was that it was pink and purple, with little sparkles set into the glasswork. It was very clean, because you liked the way it looked enough to want to keep it that way. You'd already filled it up with fresh water, and packed a tight, generous bowl into the delicate little stem protruding from its side.

"You're fifty-three, not seventy-eight," you reminded him, because that sounded like something your grandfather would have said. "Anyway, I didn't get the cheap stuff; this bud is _premium._ Don't you want to try even a little bit?"

"Let's see what it does to you first," he said, a distinct skepticism present in his voice.

"Don't tell me you've never smoked weed before," you scoffed. He drank like a fish and went through two packs of cigarettes every day, not to mention his affinity for those wavy-wall pills of his. You'd have thought weed would be right up his alley.

"Not in the last twenty-five or so years," he told you, as you took the bong and a lighter from the table and went on to demonstrate that your pot was perfectly nice stuff. 

You lit up, inhaled and— predictably— started coughing... but it was good coughing; _happy_ coughing. Once the smoke had cleared and you'd calmed your throat, you looked over at him with a broad grin. "See?" you laughed. "Fun!"

"You're fucking stupid. And you're stinking up my goddamn garage."

"Come _on,"_ you cajoled, reaching onto the table again to grab some more of the ground-up bud you'd left in a little pile by the ashtray. You gave the bong an extra suck to pull the spent ashes from your first hit into the water below, and after that you packed it again. "Just one little toke— if you hate it, I'll shut the fuck up about it. Okay?" You looked at the bong then; thought for a minute. "Here," you offered. "I'll take this one, too... so you know _for sure_ it's good."

Lighting up one more time, you took the second bowl— and in just a single toke, too. You held it in for as long as you could before letting it all out as you burst into laughter at the expression Anakin's face had taken on while he'd been watching you. 

"What?" he asked. "What's so fucking funny?"

"You! You look like a— I don't know, a _statue."_ He did... and a disapproving statue at that. He might never before have looked so very much his own age to you as he did right now. 

"A statue of _what?"_

"A statue of _you,"_ you answered. "What else?"

He sighed and shook his head again. "What did I tell you? Fucking stupid. Now put that shit down before you drop it, and smoke a cigarette like a normal person." He started to reach for his smokes on the table.

Maybe you shouldn't have, but you found yourself packing one more bowl and begging him yet again: "Please? _Just one!_ I bet you're cute when you're stoned." You held the bong out to him hopefully. You felt wonderful by now; light and happy— as if nothing could ever go wrong for you ever again. You wanted Anakin to feel the same way.

"...Fucking hell. Fine. _Just one,_ and only to get you off my case." He took the pipe in his good hand, and peered down into the water. After that, he looked up at you expectantly. 

"What?" you asked.

He held up his fake hand and waved it at you. "Are you going to light the damn thing for me, or not?" You'd forgotten that he couldn't flick a lighter with his right thumb, nor could he grip the smooth glass of the bong with the hand attached to it. 

"Oh! Sure, sorry!" Lighter in hand, you leaned in and reached out to access the bowl. He put his lips to the mouthpiece, but not before shooting you a dirty look down his nose. Once you'd held the fire to the verdant, liberally-packed little nest of herb, he began to inhale. Impressively, he managed the whole thing in a single hit, just like you. Also just like you, he coughed like a maniac upon blowing out the smoke. 

"Jesus... fucking... _Christ!"_

"You okay?" you asked. "You want one more?"

He didn't stop coughing for what felt like forever, but when he finally managed to regain control of his breathing, he— to your immense surprise— nodded; handed you the bong. You reloaded the thing, gave it back, and lit it up for him once more without either of you having to say a word.

After that, you set it down on the table again. You reclined in your seat and closed your eyes, feeling quite pleased with yourself... that is, until just after you ventured to ask Anakin, "Do you like it? How do you feel?" He'd stopped coughing by then. You didn't look over at him; didn't even open your eyes.

"Fuck," was all you heard him say.

"Huh?"

_"Fuck."_

You did glance in his direction then. "What's wrong?" you asked, because you knew from the expression on his face that something was a bit 'off'.

"I hate this," he said, and then he paused. Just when you were about to apologize, he sat bolt upright in his seat and looked over at you. "Can this shit kill you?"

You scoffed at him the same way he'd scoffed at you, back when you'd asked him if the trippy pills he had shared with you the other week were deadly. "No," you told him decidedly. "Why?"

He took a minute to answer. When he finally did, he said, "...I feel like I'm having a fucking heart attack. Do I _look_ like I'm having a heart attack?"

 _"What?_ No— you're just not used to the weed. Calm down and you'll feel better." Sure, he was old as dirt; sure, he was a chain-smoking ball of overwrought muscles and toxic stress... but you really didn't think your weed, of all things, was going to be what killed him. You'd seen people have pot-induced anxiety attacks in the past. Maybe you could admit that you should have thought a bit more critically about Anakin's mind and the way it worked before offering him a toke... but you were pretty damn sure he wasn't actually on the verge of death. 

"But I really— I mean, it feels like—"

 _"It's okay._ Chill out and you'll be fine. Do you want me to—"

"No!" he interrupted. "No, fuck! What if I'm not fine? I don't _feel_ fine. I feel like there's something squeezing my head— is there something on my head? I never fucking wear hats. I— fuck!" He stopped speaking abruptly then, and gazed around himself wide-eyed. It made you sit up straight. You'd seen him happy and sad and pissed off, but you'd never actually seen him look _frightened_ before.

"Anakin," you started, but again, he didn't let you finish. You'd been about to tell him that there was, in fact, nothing on his head. He'd look weird in a hat, you thought. No wonder he didn't wear them.

"What would you do if I died in here?" he asked abruptly. "While we were hanging out, just like this— what would you do?" He was talking too fast. He also looked you up and down as though he already suspected your answer was going to be dishonest.

That might have been why you decided to go ahead and tell the truth: "Well... I guess I'd leave and go home."

"What the fuck!" He didn't look like a statue anymore.

"What! What would you _expect_ me to do?" You stopped and then qualified your response with, "I mean, I'd try CPR and stuff before I left." 

"Do you know _how_ to do CPR?"

"Um... no. Not really."

"Well fuck you too, then." He took his eyes off of you, and went back to looking suspiciously around the room.

"Sorry," you shrugged, "I just—"

"Fuck!"

"What now?"

_"I'm fucking dying."_

"No you're not!"

...

"See? You're okay."

"Fine, so _maybe_ I'm not dying, but I still feel like shit."

"You _always_ feel like shit."

You were waiting right now near the front of a short line-up. It lead to the counter of the pharmacy attached to the local hospital, where Anakin had just been reassured several times over that he was not actually about to die of a heart attack.

The nurse at the triage desk had seemed quite concerned at first. Wound-up old men who smoked and drank heavily into their fifties were prime candidates for massive coronaries, after all. That was what had got him examined fairly quickly; you'd gone behind the curtain with him as his 'friend' along with a different nurse, only to find that Anakin's vital signs did not, in fact, indicate that he was about to die. 

Out of an abundance of caution (and because Anakin maintained a firm belief in his own imminent death), the nurse had then sent him off down a long hallway to have an electrocardiogram anyway: There, they sat you down in a chair where you held onto his arm for him (that was surreal in and of itself) while they put little sticky pads on his chest and hooked him up to a machine. It was interesting to see via a series of jumpy little lines just what the poor old fuck's heart was up to inside of his chest, but— fortunately for him— it really wasn't anything remarkable. 

_Un_ fortunately, though, he was _still_ insisting that he was about to fall down dead by the time he was sent back to the first nurse... and it was then that she, clearly having begun to feel exasperated, scribbled something down on a prescription pad and told him to go to the pharmacy.

That was where you found yourselves now, waiting for the staff there to dispense whatever type of pill it was that the nurse had thought would benefit Anakin. You were curious what it might be; curious, too, about whether or not he'd actually end up taking it. Anakin's pills usually ended up in a shoebox under his couch, such was his distaste for the type of medication that was supposed to help him calm down.

"Have you taken Ativan before, Mr. Skywalker?" asked the pharmacist, when it was Anakin's turn to step up to the counter. 

"Fucking right I have," he answered crudely. "Is it ready yet; can I get out of here, now?"

"Yes, but I'd just like to remind you—"

"Don't drink, don't drive, don't operate heavy machinery, and follow the directions on the goddamn bottle," he interrupted. "I got it— _can I get my pills and go home, please?"_

With a sigh and a shake of his head, the pharmacist handed over Anakin's medication. Belligerence from patients, you guessed, was common here— the staff didn't have time for it. Not that you minded; you wanted to leave just as much as it now seemed Anakin did.

"That was fucking stupid," he said derisively, once you'd both climbed back into his car. You were behind the wheel, just as you'd been on the way here. Anakin was in no position to drive tonight. 

"You're the one who made me drag us here," you reminded him. "I told you it was just the weed."

"If you think I'm ever smoking that shit with you again, you're fucking crazy. I still feel like my heart's about to jump up my throat and shoot out of my goddamn mouth." He was sitting beside you, fiddling with the lid of the bottle.

"I guess you're going to take one of those pills, then," you said dryly, before reaching over to grab the little container, because it seemed like he was having trouble with it.

"Damn right," he said as he watched you open his new meds for him. After a brief pause, he asked, "...You know what they are, don't you?"

"No," you said, passing them back. "What are they?"

He grinned at that. It was the first smile you'd seen him display all night. "They're the ones that make the walls breathe," he told you.

"Really?" you asked. "They gave you _those?"_ He'd said before that his own doctor didn't like to prescribe the wavy-wall pills to him anymore, for fear he'd develop a dependency on them. That was reasonable, you thought, given the way he treated cigarettes and liquor.

He laughed. "They don't know me very well here." 

"You gonna share with me when we get back to the garage?" you asked hopefully. You'd loved it the last time he had. You'd taken far too many and woken up feeling like shit, of course, but it had been well worth it to trip out while you rode his dick gleefully into the sunset of your own mind.

"Only if you put away your goddamn hippie bullshit," he informed you, before shaking two of his new pills into his own hand and swallowing them dry. "That crap was awful; I don't know what the fuck you were thinking."

With a shrug, "I didn't know it wouldn't agree with you. But now that we have something that _does_ agree with you..." You trailed off with a broad smile as you started up the car. Anakin's vehicle was old like him; it even had the kind of windows you had to roll up and down with a little crank. 

He didn't say anything to that; just leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, exactly like you had on the couch following your bong hits. You were glad to see him relax.

Soon, you'd arrive back at his house. You would sneak quietly into his garage together so his wife and kids wouldn't hear you; after that, you'd tuck your goddamn hippie bullshit away and sit down next to him on the couch to enjoy your share of what he'd been prescribed at the hospital.

You'd watch the walls move and his dick get hard; eventually, you would ride it just the way you liked best— but not until you'd spent a bit of time picking with fascination at the sticky little sensors which had been left on his chest following his electrocardiogram. They were neat, you thought, although Anakin bitched and moaned about how painful it was when you finally decided to tear them off. 

"Don't be a fucking pussy," you told him. "Were you just gonna leave them on forever?"

"Fuck you," he snapped back, although after that he thanked you for driving him to the hospital— and for following him behind the curtain in the ER while he talked to the nurse, and for holding onto his fake arm for him during his heart test, too.

It was strange to hear, because Anakin never thanked you for much of anything— you were hardly ever polite to one another; didn't exchange very many kind words at all, really. Still, you guessed it was nice that he appreciated the effort you'd put into helping him feel better... especially given the fact that your attempt at surprising him with your weed had fallen flat.

You gazed around the room absently then, marvelling at the way the objects surrounding you seemed to breathe as you let Anakin's pills take hold of you. You did this until his stiffened cock demanded your attention; after that, you'd play with it for a while, the way you both liked best.

You were glad that he hadn't really been about to die tonight, because despite the way you often treated each other, Anakin might just have been your favourite thing in the whole world to play with.

**Author's Note:**

> I really don't think Anakin's personality (disorder(s)) would predispose him to reacting very well to weed for the first time in a quarter of a century, lol. 
> 
> Sorry this one wasn't very sexy (or even necessarily funny), but the idea just wouldn't leave my head. I like spending time with Anakin.


End file.
